Harry Potter and the Mutant Gene
by Orpah
Summary: Strange things happen to Harry Potter, things he can't quite explain. When the X-men come knocking, he will learn what he is and who he came from.


Just one note: it's set in America.

I don't own Harry Potter or X-men! End/AN/

Harry wasn't sure when his aunt and uncle, Vernon and Petunia Dursley, had decided that he wasn't fit for company. There had never been a talk about how some things were appropriate and normal and he was not one of them; there had never been a dressing down of his faults. Just a sort of nervous quiet on that front, as well as the command to stay in his closet-room whenever their decidedly acceptable friends came over.

And that wasn't the only thing; it had long ago been decided that everything that went wrong was Harry's fault. He rarely questioned it out loud, but as he'd seen Dudley, their precious son (who was rather rotund), do things that he got blamed for, he had an inkling that things were not always his fault.

Today, he was in his closet, lying on the bed that narrowly fit and staring up at the scrawled pictures and notes he'd put on the walls. He'd always wished he could make wallpaper, but it simply wasn't to be; more than one page at a time, and Aunt Petunia would say, "We're not made of money, Harry; put that back."

In the living room, he could hear the Millers (a close family to his Aunt and Uncle) talking and commenting on the coffee and donuts that had been put out for the occasion. They were probably saying something along the lines of, "Oh, did you go to Leach's Bakery? Their donuts are the best, I can't stand any other crème stick!"

"Of course I went to Leach's. You know, the women who work the counter know me by name; they made sure these were the freshest donuts there."

"Oh, really? Well then, I should have another! Don't want the freshness to go to waste!"

And the men would be sitting close enough together to murmur, leaning forward and talking about the game or politics, and occasionally leaning back to break into a shout such as "The ref was blind!" or "These damn junkies need to get off of welfare!"

Dudley would be doing what he usually did, which was eat. He'd have a tall glass of milk, and dip the raised donuts in it, sucking out the milk before chewing up the soppy remains of the donut.

Harry couldn't explain how he knew all this; he'd never once been out there to see. He just seemed to have moments like that, where he saw things that he hadn't been there to witness. That was how he knew that Uncle Vernon was having more than one friendly drink with the guys after work; that was how he knew that Aunt Petunia cleared the internet history when she was done with it.

It was just a normal day, as normal as could be. Harry lay on his back, staring up at the wooden undersides of the stairs. He wished he was out there eating donuts; while he wasn't ruled by his stomach, donuts were a nice treat, and it was making his mouth water.

If he could only have one crème stick, he'd be content to stay in the closet the rest of the day. He lay there and thought about it, and did what he usually did when he wanted something. He pretended he had it.

He imagined biting into one, and contented himself with that. He could practically taste the sugar; he'd gotten very good at imagining, in his whole eleven years.

Suddenly, a creak met his ears, and he opened his eyes in alarm. The door hung open, the door he was not supposed to open! He scrambled to his hands and knees, crawling over towards it to shut it before he was seen.

But he was too late; not only did Aunt Petunia see him and get that tight little frown in her mouth, but Mrs. Miller saw him too. She stared for a moment, asking, "Who's that?"

"That's Harry, our nephew," Uncle Vernon coughed, seeming like he had to force the words out like a singer forced to sing a song outside of their range. Aunt Petunia gave a sort of tremulous smile, adding,

"The poor dear was just taking a nap. That's our nap room. It's all right, Harry, dear, you can go back to napping."

It was rare that Harry was defiant. It wasn't something he made a habit of. But he slowly got out of the bed, heartbeat in his ears, as he said, "Well, I… I would like a crème stick, if that's all right. Then I can go back to napping, Aunt Petunia."

Aunt Petunia looked as though she'd been struck; Uncle Vernon turned red, coughing into his hand vigorously.

Mrs. Miller didn't notice, smiling pleasantly and saying, "Well, you're in luck! There's one left."

Harry's mouth watered. He edged forward, towards the pastry box, hand reaching for the crème stick. It appeared to have maple icing, and sat pretty and straight among a series of ring and twist donuts.

Aunt Petunia started, "Well…" but she seemed to think better of it, saying, "Well, of course that's fine. Unless you'd rather nap, dear."

"No, thank you." Harry was within grabbing distance of the donut, heart pounding, palms sweating, knowing he was going to get it when the Millers were gone. But, even though he hadn't really thought it through, he consoled himself with the fact that it would be worth it.

And then he tripped.

The table went flying, donuts everywhere, on the couch, in the curtains, and on the people. Harry wasn't sure how he did it, because he hadn't even felt hitting the table, but he must have, because it had flown right through the space between Mr. Miller and Uncle Vernon.

Mrs. Miller was horrified, picking glaze out of her hair and spluttering; Dudley's milk was spilled all over his face. Mr. Miller sat there quietly, stunned out of words or actions.

But Uncle Vernon had plenty to say, and he grabbed Harry by the shoulder, pulling him up off the floor. "Harry, I am talking with you in the kitchen _now_."

Disappointment surged through Harry; he had practically been able to taste it for real. He stumbled along, and as he disappeared from the living room, he could hear Aunt Petunia apologizing profusely for him, adding that he was "Such a delinquent, I'm so sorry."

That day ended with him shut in his room again, though only after a severe dressing down from Uncle Vernon.

And Harry wondered, as he usually wondered when these things happened: how did he manage to mess things up so badly?

/AN/ So, this is probably going to be a twoshot. I hope y'all enjoyed it. You'll be seeing the Xmen in the next chapter.


End file.
